


CANIS DIANAE: The Hound of Diana

by hoc_voluerunt



Series: SPQR [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (or at least references to), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece & Rome, Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Historical, Ancient Rome, Brothels, Canon Divergence - The Great Game, Case Fic, Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, F/M, Gen, Historical References, Post The Great Game, Prostitution, Sexual Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 10:32:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1158611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoc_voluerunt/pseuds/hoc_voluerunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of Vannus' enforced day in the arena, his wounds are healing and Seia's new colleage Menna is assigned to tend to him, even as the wounds of Rome begin to grow and fester. Celatus takes on a new case -- the body of a young man, mauled and mutilated -- and though Vannus insists on joining him, not all may be as it seems. The emperor is growing increasingly unpopular, and a vigilante may be taking the empire's dubious system of justice into their own hands. How far can Celatus go, however, when the city might any day fall into chaos, and he keeps nearly using his friend's forbidden name?</p>
            </blockquote>





	CANIS DIANAE: The Hound of Diana

**Author's Note:**

> Latin and Greek translations in mouseover text, or in [this post](http://hoc-voluerunt.livejournal.com/39859.html).

        There was sweat in Vannus’ eyes, and an armed, determined man before him, and if he survived this fight, he’d just be thrown into another.

        The opponent lunged, and Vannus darted back.

        His skin no longer crawled with the indignity of his position. At the beginning of the day, he’d wanted to wail and rage and protest his freedom, to throw himself to the ground and beat his chest with angered grief. All his life, he’d fought such an assumption, all his life he’d made sure to be _civil_ – and now Cassius Mercurialis thrown him into the arena where he knew he did not belong, and cast his name, his pride, his sacrifices, and his life, to the dust. But he’d been fighting all day – though it felt like a small eternity – and between the beasts and the fellow men, no thoughts of pride touched him. Survival, now, was all.

        He avoided a toss of the net but caught the edge of a sword lunge with his leg; twisted, leapt close to his enemy, and gave him a deep slash to the back and side as he darted away. The scattered crowd cheered at the blood, and beneath their babble, and beneath the blood rushing in his ears, Vannus heard a voice call out.

        “That man is a citizen!”

        It was a familiar voice – a patrician’s voice – but unfamiliarly hoarse with desperation. Vannus had no choice in the matter: he stepped further back, turned, and looked up to where Cornelius Celatus had pressed himself to the barrier at the front of the crowd and was shouting to be heard.

        “That man is a citizen of Rome!”

        The African rushed at him, and Vannus hurriedly refocused in order to deflect a stab with his shield and leap out of the way, then roll to his feet with a staggering limp.

        “I bring witnesses!”

        Vannus darted back from another attack, and, on one nimble foot, swept in from the side and cut his opponent’s arm, a sharp stab which brought the net into the dust. He turned away from the gasping, seething gladiator, and limped for the edge of the arena – at the same time as Celatus hitched his toga and mounted the wall.

        “Celatus –”

        “Look out!”

        He turned, twisted away from the swordpoint, thrusting beyond his chest, and gripped his opponent’s wrist to pull him close.

        “I do not wish to murder you,” he muttered, and the man managed a simultaneous snarl and grin.

_“ Omnis morituri.”_

        A gasp went up through the crowd, and the African’s eyes grew wide, for a long, thin hand now suddenly gripped Vannus’ shoulder, and beside him, a strong and noble voice called out.

        “This man is a citizen!”

        Vannus pushed away his opponent and turned to Celatus. “Get back,” he murmured. “Get back, you fool, or you’ll be killed with me!”

        Celatus only smiled, and turned his face to the gladiator.

        “You wouldn’t kill a Cornelius,” he asked, in smooth and imperative tones – “would you?”

        The name was renowned, and yet the man seemed still to deliberate, eyes darting; then his weapon was withdrawn, and he retreated. The little crowd was split between shocked silence and outraged jeers as Celatus turned to them, left hand still upon Vannus’ shoulder, and raised his right hand to the crowd. To Vannus’ surprise, the people began to fall quiet.

        “My name,” cried Celatus, “is Amulius Cornelius Celatus, son of the senator Gaius Cornelius Lentulus, who was nephew to Publius Cornelius Lentulus Scipio, the consul; descendant of Lucius Cornelius Cinna, four-times consul of this great city; descendant of the kings; descendant of Aeneas, founder of Rome; descendant of Venus herself!”

        He was recognised with a deepening, broadening, potent silence. Vannus stared and stared, and saw in his friend, for the first time, something of majesty.

        “This man,” Celatus continued, with his hand moving to between Vannus’ shoulder-blades as if to press him forward, “is Marcus Caelius Piso, son of Gnaeus Caelius Catus, freedman to Gnaeus Caelius Piso – to that man!” His hand was flung aside, to point out an old man at the front of the crowd who, with a trembling mouth and firm gaze, raised a hand in acknowledgement and acquiescence. The audience murmured. “This man,” said Celatus again, “served as a soldier in the Fifteenth Apollonian Legion! He fought for his emperor and his fatherland, and stood in the provinces. He protected this city from Jewish rebels – nearly _died_ protecting this city!” A murmur again. “He served as surgeon to his cohort, saved his soldiers, healed his fellow Romans! Those men –” He pointed to another part of the crowd, where three scarred and angry men cheered in agreement – “those men served with him, would have died without him, fought beside this man who now fights for his life like a dog for entertainment!”

        The soldiers cheered in defiance, and Vannus thought he recognised them, even from this distance; even at the remove of fear and shock. The crowd made noise with the soldiers, and Celatus swelled with a pride not of nobility, or his own intelligence, but of fondness and a tenuous victory. His right hand fell, the left still pressed to Vannus’ bare back, and out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at Vannus, and a smile approached his lips. Then he raised his hand again, and after some moments, the crowd went quiet again.

        “Marcus Caelius Piso,” he said, voice strong and loud with confidence, “committed no treason, and was captured as no slave. He is neither criminal nor prisoner, nor a willing volunteer. He lives with me on the via Pistoris, works as a surgeon by the Caelian hill, and was kidnapped while we slept, in Roman beds, in a Roman house!” Shock and awe in the crowd. “He was born on the via Insteius on the Quirinal Hill, and lived a virtuous life among these seven great mounts. He was born free, to freed parents, and he is as Roman as any Cornelius or Aemilius who ever sat in a vaulted consul’s chair!” Scattered cheers accompanied his words, and he raised his voice yet further to shout: “He is a _citizen!”_ A lull fell. “And the tricks of evil men who captured him and brought him here are unworthy of your applause, fellow citizens – unworthy of this arena, and unworthy even of the gladiator he was made to fight!”

        A cheer rose up, greater than those before, and Vannus felt his chin lift and Celatus’ hand press closer on his back. Again, Celatus’ right hand rose, and again the crowd’s voices dwindled.

        “I ask you then, the people of Rome,” Celatus cried: “will you let this man die?”

        A shout was given, the words incoherent but the tone clear. Celatus turned in place, his hand resting now on Vannus’ shoulder.

        “Will you let this man fall to the unworthy dust of this arena?”

        Another shout, louder now, ringing out from all sides, and Celatus stepped back, facing his friend, facing the crowd.

        “Will you let your fellow citizen, who fought with and healed his companion soldiers, die, born to the same freedom as you?”

        Again the shout, echoing from the walls and seats, as Celatus turned a final time, with his right arm now around Vannus’ shoulders, as at the presentation of a champion.

        “Or will you let Marcus Caelius Piso live?”

        Louder than ever, this time, the crowd began to cheer, at a volume and passion Vannus would not have believed from the unfilled seats he could see. Their words were garbled and unclear, but from those nearest, Vannus heard the demand: “Let him live! Let him live!”

        The gladiator, from where he stood at a shocked remove, dropped his weapon, and stepped back yet more, an acknowledging smirk upon his face below the helmet. Celatus’ hand moved, trembling, to Vannus’ back. Behind them, a gate rattled and creaked as it opened, and up in the crowd, before Vannus turned away from the cheers of the roused spectators, he saw the dark eyes of Mercurialis, scowling down at them both. They promised retribution; but as Vannus ducked back into the dark tunnels under the stands, with Celatus’ hand still on his back, he felt his breath and heartbeat swell within him with new defiance.

        Once they’d passed the guards and were alone in the tunnels below, Celatus dragged Vannus along, and pushed him to one side to kneel before him. His hands trembled and fumbled as he dragged at the buckles and knots of the straps of Vannus’ scant gladiator’s armour.

        “Are you all right?” he asked – and where a moment before his voice had been grand and triumphant, here it quivered and questioned and was breathless with fear. “Vannus, _are you all right?”_

        He was standing, now, and tugging the armour from Vannus’ body even as the fight finally left him, and the short sword they’d armed him with fell clattering to the ground. He twitched away from Celatus’ hands and tore the small shield from his wrist.

        “I’m fine,” he murmured. Celatus followed him as he shied away, eyes glancing over every bruise and bleeding or caked-over wound, and Vannus flinched again, shoulders slumped as he stepped twice back and let his hands finally begin to shake. “Celatus, I’m _fine._ I’m fine.”

        Celatus stood still, now, panting at least as hard as Vannus and still staring at him with weak, silver eyes. The wound in Vannus’ thigh flared with pain now that the sting of survival had been washed away by relief, and he stumbled to keep the weight off his leg. Celatus’ eyes flashed at the movement; he fixated now on the wound.

        “We need to get you home, or to Seia’s,” he said, his voice a careful blank of facts. “You have wounds that need tending.”

        “No chance of getting Sollemnis’ litter over to pick me up, is there?” Vannus replied, a weak and desperate joke. Celatus stared at him for a long moment, as if he knew not what to make of the words – but then his mouth split wide in a grin, and a low, slightly-delirious chuckle emerged from his chest.

        Vannus was helpless to resist. In a moment, he too was laughing, unbelieving and full of relief; and even as he stood aching and bleeding in the tunnels of the Circus Maximus, he thought back on Mercurialis’ cold, dark eyes, and saw nothing of them here. _Ita, _ he thought to himself, as he limped forward and was immediately supported by Celatus’ hands under his arms – _vincemus._

 

        Seia patched him up. She cleaned and cut and stitched the worst of Vannus’ wounds while Celatus pinned him to the table, face impassive, but deceptively strong limbs working hard; and with her, she brought Menna, a freeborn woman from Libya who had been a midwife, and was keen to learn more about the medical arts. The wound in Vannus’ leg was the worst of the lot, but there were also gashes and bruises and minor fractures which Vannus would have numbered as countless were he not certain that Celatus had counted them all. The healing scars from their encounter with General Shan and her smugglers barely weeks earlier had weakened his body, however, the cut on his back having nearly opened again with the strain of the arena, and though Seia patiently applied poultices for the swelling and pain, and bought and made amulets and prayers for his convalescence, she left Menna in CCXXIB to attend to the worst of Vannus’ injuries, despite his protestations that he was fine on his own. It was only the triple insistence of Seia, Menna, and Celatus himself which convinced him to agree; in the end, he was glad for her presence, when his leg grew infected and she was able, during his utter incapacitation, to pull him back from the edge of death.

        In the meantime, Celatus was like a gadfly: upsetting, irritating, and constantly flitting from place to place. In the first weeks after the incident at the arena, he would spend hours in CCXXIB to cater to every whim of Vannus’ or absorb every word of examination or advice the three doctors produced; then suddenly, he would be gone nearly for days, away from the via Pistoris doing Jupiter-knew-what: chasing mysteries, or keeping informed of new building projects or burnt-down insulae, or perhaps just annoying his brother – Vannus certainly had no idea, for Celatus was apparently loathe to share anything of his doings.

        So it was that April passed in a frustrating haze of enforced confinement for Vannus, seeing little more than the via Pistoris, and knowing only Celatus, Menna, Hirtia, and Seia, and Laevinus on his infrequent visits with Dido in tow. Celatus looked baffled when, after his pompous complaining, Vannus had to explain to him just how rumours of Macer’s rebellion in North Africa would affect the price of grain in Rome; and Sollemnis showed his face to inform them, with oozing voice, of a vague but menacing upcoming disturbance somewhere to the north, and to again remind them that the villa at Arretium was open for their use.

        Without needing to share even a glance, both Celatus and Vannus declined.

        At the beginning of May, however, Vannus grew stronger, and insisted on leaving the house with Celatus for errands, and especially if he received a case.

        Luckily for Vannus, the day after the Ides, he did.

 

        The man who brought the matter to their attention was one Quintus Pomponius Flaccus, a wealthy and significant propraetor of Spanish descent with a large house on the slopes near the Palatine and a distinguished family – all facts of which he made very sure to apprise Celatus when he arrived. He didn’t seem to notice Vannus at all. His hair was dark and curled, and his skin olive, but it hung loose and flabby on his bones unused and over cared-for.

        “My son has been killed,” he said, in grave and superior tones, as he sat in one of the rough chairs in their apartment. “None of the lawyers in my employ have been able to find any evidence of what happened to him or from whom we may seek retribution, but it was brought to my attention that you, Cornelius, are quite good at solving problems such as this. I know that I may rely on a man of your position.”

        Although Vannus’ frustration was venting itself in pursed lips and outrageous eyerolls from behind Pomponius, Celatus seemed almost amused, both at the manner of their guest and Vannus’ reaction. His lips twitched, and the lines around his nose and mouth were strained with hidden mirth.

        “Of course, Pomponius,” he drawled, bowing his head as he moved to sit in the opposite chair. “If you would just give us the details of your son’s death, we would be most obliged. I don’t suppose a viewing of the body might be available to us?”

        Pomponius’ eyes narrowed. “We?” he repeated. _“Us?”_

        “My friend and colleague – Caelius Piso.” The pronouncement was forceful, and as Celatus raised his hand in Vannus’ direction, so too did his eyes dart up, and glitter with something that was more like pleading than his voice’s declaration. Vannus ignored the look, and stood a little straighter as Pomponius turned around in his seat.

 _“Salve,”_ he said with a nod.

        Pomponius’ expression soured.

        “I don’t recognise the name,” he said to Celatus, turning back. “Is his family associated with the court, perhaps?”

        “Nothing so vulgar, I assure you,” Celatus smiled. His eyes had gone back to their steely pinning of Pomponius as Vannus stood between the two seated men, as if they’d never flickered in the first place.

        “I was an officer with the Fifteenth Apollonian,” Vannus growled, though he kept his face pleasant. “Shot fighting against the Jewish revolt.”

        Pomponius peered at him still.

        “Well, you didn’t do a very good job over there.”

        But there was no bite to his voice, and the words were no more than a hasty and spiteful retreat. Vannus stopped himself from smirking; Celatus had a little less control.

        “Now, if you’ll be so good, sir, as to tell us the details of your son’s death…”

 

        Four days earlier, Lucius Pomponius Flaccus, aged twenty, had gone out with a group of friends and clients to celebrate his newly-won position as a military tribune. He had, most likely, gone to a tavern not far from the family home, then visited a brothel or two, perhaps another tavern, and was supposed to have returned home by the next day. When, long after dawn, he had still not appeared, his father and elder brother had gone out with a few slaves to try to find him. They had expected to find him passed out drunk in a gutter somewhere, or in the sleeping arms of an accommodating barmaid; instead, they had found him dead – apparently mauled and mutilated by some dog or beast – in an alley in the subura.

        The body was being kept at the family home before the burial the next day.

 

        “He wasn’t mauled.”

        Vannus had _insisted_ on coming along. Celatus had wheedled and whined and outright demanded, but still Vannus would not be swayed. Even Menna had protested, having arrived just as Pomponius left and Celatus and Vannus began to argue. But Vannus had spent over a month shut up on the via Pistoris, healing and ailing and healing again, and was desperate, despite his still-weak leg, to get out. He’d walked with Celatus to the Palatine, and had been led with him to the back room where Lucius Pomponius Flaccus’ body was being kept, and had taken one long look at the extensive wounds, long and bloody, as Celatus circled the body – peering close and sniffing here and there – and declared:

        “This was a man’s hand, not a beast’s.”

        Celatus looked up from where he was bent at the waist over the dead man’s right hand, and his eyes remained wide and slate-blank.

        “How can you tell?”

        Vannus frowned at him from across the room. “Can’t you?”

        “Of course I can,” Celatus dismissed with a tiny shake of his head, “but how can _you?”_

        Vannus did not address the derisive implication. “The wounds are all wrong,” he said, as he shrugged and stepped closer into the meagre light. “Claw marks are evenly-spaced; these are all single, unparalleled lines. A dog or lion or any beast would instinctively go for the throat, but though there are wounds there, they aren’t ragged enough for a mauling, and there should be slobber. Not to mention the stab wound to the heart –” Here Celatus’ eyes widened with a flash and he darted forward to bend over the man’s chest – “and the almost methodical mutilation of the groin… No beast attacks like this. This is the work of human hands.”

        Celatus’ mouth moved in something like appreciation, a little smirk restrained at the last possible moment. “I’m impressed,” was all he said, in a low and timbrous tone, and Vannus met the expression with a single raised brow and a quirk to his lips.

        “What else can you tell?” he asked, and Celatus straightened, and opened his mouth in preparation for a familiar pattern of speech.

        “You’re right,” he said, “these wounds were made by a man with a double-edged dagger, unusually short, but strong, clean, sharp, well-kept. The clothes have been changed, but judging by traces on the skin, he’d recently been in a fight, been served in a brothel, thrown up, and been in the area of the subura before his death. The extent of the wounds, especially the added wounds to the groin, made _after_ the man had already died, indicate a very personal motive – no assassin goes to these lengths, nor common burglar.”

        “So we need to find someone who was, what – seeking revenge?”

        Celatus smiled to one side. “Something like that.”

 

        Vannus went to the father, while Celatus branched off to interrogate as many other members of the household as he could manipulate. When they reconvened, their findings – predictably – did not match.

        “So according to Flaccus’ father,” Vannus recounted back in CCXXIB, while Menna massaged his thigh, “he was an entirely ordinary, respectable aspiring senator. Took the _toga virilis_ at fourteen, joined his father’s train, all set to run for quaestor after some time with the army. Never quarrelled, never overate, whored no more than usual, kept respectable company with other young men his age with senatorial ambitions.”

        “And according to the slaves, Flaccus’ sister, and the few clients I could get an honest opinion from,” Celatus added, staring openly at where Vannus’ tunic was pushed up to reveal the formation of a branching scar, “he was drunkard who beat his whores both slave and free, was out of doors at all hours, led a gang of cutthroats and ruffians, and was all set to become yet another corrupt and lazy member of a bitter and pointless institution.”

        “Isn’t your brother a senator?” Vannus asked through a tilted mouth. Celatus glanced at him with mirthful eyes.

        “So, the truth almost certainly lies towards the latter,” he said instead of answering, “least of all because I have sheer numbers on my side. And you know what senatorial fathers are like.”

        “Did you manage to get any information about who in _particular_ would want to see him dead?”

        Celatus’ lip curled as his light mood burned to ash. _“No,”_ he grumbled. “Any number of pimps or madams would have gladly seen him thrown down the Gemonian Stairs for destruction of goods, let alone the many he persecuted on the streets at night with his gang. His sister, however, might be a good place to start.”

        Vannus tried to shift forward in his seat, hissed loudly as his leg twitched under Menna’s hands, and suffered a slap to the stomach for his troubles. He sat back again, but his face was still sour. “Don’t tell me he was abusing her.”

        “No, nothing so personal, I shouldn’t think,” Celatus mused. “But she was in full knowledge of what he did to other women in his life – apparently he liked to boast. She might have gone to someone looking for justice: she has the connections for it.”

        “Then let’s go.”

_“No.”_

        Menna had spoken up – a rare enough occurrence on its own, but her interrupting the affairs of Celatus and Vannus was almost unheard of. Celatus glared at her; Vannus’ stare was significantly more startled. She looked to one, then the other, and sighed, as she removed her hands from Vannus’ leg and stood.

        “He’s not going anywhere in his condition,” she commanded, as she wiped her hands on a cloth on her belt. “The muscle needs to relax, and the wound needs to rest, especially after the exertions of this morning.”

 _“Exertions?”_ Vannus repeated. “We walked to the Palatine and back, I’d hardly call that _exertions –”_

        Menna glared at him, and her eyes were like obsidian. Vannus relented.

        “Fine,” he said in a flat voice, relaxing back into his chair. “She’s right. You go,” he added to Celatus. “Tell me what you find.”

        Celatus looked furious, but would not argue, not under the combined scrutiny of Vannus and Menna’s gazes. He huffed loudly, and as Menna put back on her stola, ready to leave, he re-settled his toga on his shoulder and swept from the room.

        “I’m sorry about him,” Vannus sighed, eyes closing, and rested his chin on his fist, elbow on the arm of his chair. “He’s a little… brash.”

        Menna snorted. “It’s not the worst I’ve seen,” she said. “I _was_ a midwife, remember?”

        Vannus huffed a short, understanding laugh.

        “Besides,” Menna continued, “he’s only concerned for you. He expresses it all wrong, of course, but you’ve seen the way he looks at your leg. Like he’s afraid it’s all his fault.”

        “Well,” Vannus conceded – “it sort of is, in a way.”

        Menna paused, cloak halfway between one shoulder and the next. “You know,” she said slowly, and finished the movement – “you never have told me what happened. You were a gladiator…?”

        “No,” Vannus snapped, looking away. “No I wasn’t.”

        Menna watched him for a moment, while he watched only the floor; then she removed her cloak, and sat down in the chair Celatus had so recently vacated.

        “Tell me.”

 

        Celatus, in the meantime, fell grumbling to work. His first order of business was to return to the Palatine, and arrange a meeting with the sister, Pomponia. She professed innocence from any knowledge of or part in a plot against her erstwhile brother. The mud on her sandals, however, spoke differently; and when he asked her where she’d been in the last fortnight or so, on the off chance that someone had overheard her complaining or guessed something from her manner, she said that she hadn’t been further than the forum in nearly a month, and always travelled in a litter.

        The last rain, however, had been but a week earlier, and the mud on her shoes was the distinctive hue, not of the paved and popular streets between the Palatine and Capitoline, but of the sordid and rubbish-filled alleyways of the subura.

        Celatus had his destination.

 

        Rome, as most people knew, even only tangentially, was teeming with people willing to do all manner of things for money. Prostitutes and charlatans were some, yes; but there were also conspicuous communities of those ready and able to kill or maim for a fee: ex-soldiers populated the taverns and baths, and skulked in shadowy corners; doctors and chemists and philosophers and witches all had their various methods; and even the ordinary beggar or out-of-work builder with a firm pair of hands would very likely accept a knife and a target. Celatus had once solved a case in which an unremarkable tanner had pocketed a fee for murdering a man who, he’d been told, was but a rival in love, when in reality, he was a pesky political burden.

        Flaccus’ wounds had been made with sharp and precise weapons; Pomponia’s shoes were spread over with mud from the subura; and despite the lack of obvious suspects, it was clear that the culprit had had a personal stake in the matter.

        Celatus shouldered between stalls and crowds, and headed straight for the taverns.

 

        It took him all night. He sat at bars and tables, in corners or conspicuous spotlights, with cups of wine and his toga draped more like a cloak than a sign of nobility. Vannus, he knew, was the type to frequent places like these, and so his thoughts, for once, were not of simple condescension and coercion, but of how his friend would act and speak, what his friend would do. He blended in, and it was enough to have his questions answered. By the time he turned his back on the subura, he had eight different possible groups and individuals and another three leads to investigate, and the sun was rising steadily over Nero’s house.

 

        Menna had stayed long into the night, as Vannus’ explanation of his injuries turned into how he’d met Celatus, and how she’d met Seia, and what terrible examples of botched surgery they’d seen. When they eventually retired, Menna had slept in Celatus’ room, as there seemed to be little chance of him returning before the morning, and certainly no chance he’d want to sleep. When he finally did appear, long after Menna had left the next day, he was hollow-eyed and snarling. He changed his clothes, refused to eat, then disappeared again, as he muttered something about “too many variables…” Vannus ignored his ill mood, and resolved to spend the day alone.

        Indeed, it was more than one day. For over a week, Celatus spent almost all of his time out of doors, though he never told Vannus anything of where he had been or what he’d been doing. Vannus had a few jobs with Seia, and Menna still came around every so often to keep an eye on his convalescence, but during the time that Celatus was away, Vannus found himself feeling bored and alone. There was something troubling about not knowing where Celatus was, or what work he was getting himself into, while without a companion to either share in or deflect both excitement and danger – especially when the streets below seemed to be populated by more fretting and hurrying people than Vannus had seen since he’d scouted cities in Judaea.

        What Celatus would not say, was that he had still failed to find a connection between Pomponia and anyone in the Subura. The more he looked, the more options he gained and the more baffled he became, as clues disappeared, and time dulled both memories and evidence.

 

        On the night of the ninth day after the Ides, Celatus was again absent all hours, and Menna, again, stayed at the via Pistoris after checking up on Vannus’ leg and falling to talking about her previous husband (who had given her no children, and been an absolute bore, and with whom she’d agreed upon a divorce after a decade of uninspiring marriage). Vannus was to be glad that she’d stayed – for in the fresh flush of dawn, as he sat down to porridge with Menna, a woman’s loud wails drifted up from the street, headed straight for CCXXIB. When she appeared in the doorway, she revealed herself to be approaching forty at most, not very tall but with dusted skin and wiry limbs; and every desperate word she spoke was in Greek. She cried and begged, and fell to her knees, and though Vannus recognised Celatus’ name within her words, he remained bewildered as to her actual intent. He glanced over at Menna, who frowned at him, as if his path should have been obvious.

        “Σε παρακαλώ, σε παρακαλώ, πρέπει να με βοηθήσεις,” the woman babbled, hands clasped and entreating to a sympathetic but unknowing Vannus – until Menna pushed out from her chair, and crouched down before the woman to grasp her arms.

        “Αυτός δεν μιλάει ελληνικά, αλλά να κάνω,” she said, smooth and calm. “Τι έχει συμβεί?”

        “Ο γιος μου –”

        “Τι συνέβη στο γιο σας?”

        Even Vannus could tell that the dialogue was reaching its peak, as the woman gulped down her sobs and met Menna’s eye with utter abjection.

        “Ο γιος μου έχει δολοφονηθεί.”

 

        In a house not far from the Aventine, Menna and Vannus waited in a very small courtyard for a Latin-speaker. Menna had left a note on a scrap of parchment for Celatus to find, and they’d told Hirtia where they were going, and while they waited, Menna recounted to Vannus what the woman had told her on the way there.

        “Her name is Yehudit,” she explained, “she’s Jewish. Her son Matthaios was attacked on his way home from the markets last night – he’d been out buying food for the family. He was later than expected, so the daughter left to try to find him. When she did, he was staggering up the street covered in blood. He died just as he entered his home.”

        Vannus’ shoulders were heavy, and he shook his head. “I don’t believe it.”

        Menna shot a chiding glance up at him. “I don’t believe that you don’t speak Greek.”

        “I was in the _army,”_ Vannus sighed. “Everything was in Latin, even the jokes about shit.”

        “Should we contact Celatus?” asked Menna. “After all, he _is_ whom Yehudit was seeking.”

        “We’ll see,” said Vannus. “It depends on the state of Matthaios’ body, and his current case. There may be nothing he can do, but if the Pomponii’s problem is still vexing him…”

        Menna did not look at him, but directed her ill-twisting mouth to a doorway across the little unadorned yard, through which Yehudit had disappeared.

        “They shouldn’t even be in Rome,” she mumbled.

        “I know,” Vannus softly replied. “One of their pilgrimage festivals…”

        “You know about it?”

        “I fought in war against them,” Vannus sighed, with a roll of his eyes – “the same one keeping these folk from their temple now. You would hope I learnt _something_ while I was there.”

        Menna opened her mouth to reply, but at that moment, a young woman came out into the courtyard to approach them, and cut off their talk.

        “I’m sorry for the wait,” she said, “my mother needed a moment.” Her back was strong, but her fingers were clasped together before her,shifting and clammy, and her voice held the shadow of a waver in its depths. “My name is Mariame. Matthaios was my brother.”

        “Mariame,” said Vannus, “We’re very sorry for your loss, and I know this must be difficult –”

        “We only want justice,” Mariame interrupted, in clipped and calm tones. “Matthaios never hurt a soul, he didn’t deserve this. We have the money for a lawyer, or for… whatever might be necessary.”

        Vannus shared the briefest of sidelong glances with Menna, but did not comment.

        “Can you tell us what happened?” asked Menna.

        Mariame took a deep breath. “Matthaios was late coming home from the forum,” she said. “He was only out shopping. I went to look for him…”

        “Where did you find him?” Vannus asked, when her speech faltered. She lifted her chin.

        “Not two streets away,” she said. “I took him over my shoulder, I nearly had to carry him, he was so weak, but – only moments after we came through the door…” She swallowed, but continued. “He died over there,” she said, nodding at a corner of the courtyard to her left, behind Menna and Vannus. “He was – he’d been attacked. It looked like some beast had attacked him, but no wild beast would inflict wounds like that, not without prompting. Someone must have set upon him, it’s the only explanation.”

        Vannus’ dark gaze had sharpened at that, and his mouth grew tight. “May we see him?” he asked.

 

        The room was dark, but it took only a moment for Vannus to make out the wounds on Matthaios’ body – their uneven spacing and peculiar placement, the viciousness and cleanness of the wounds. Just like on Flaccus’ body.

        “We need to find Celatus.”

 

        “You wait here –”

        “Piso, you _must_ stay off your leg –”

        “It’s fine, it doesn’t hurt –”

        “It _hasn’t healed_ yet, you _know_ that – why do surgeons always make the very worst patients?”

        “Menna, someone needs to stay here in case Celatus is on his way, and someone needs to go back to the via Pistoris –”

        “Then _I_ should be the one going, and you should stay here!”

        “What exactly is going on here?”

        Both Vannus and Menna breathed sighs of relief at the sound of Celatus’ voice.

        “Nothing,” Vannus said with a wave of his hand. “We found another victim of whoever killed Flaccus.”

        Celatus’ eyes widened, and he glanced up at the house behind them. “Another man, torn up as if by a beast or a dog?”

        “Exactly,” said Vannus. “Knife wounds to the groin, single stab wound in the chest, all quite shallow.”

        Celatus’ eyes were darting back and forth, now, and his hands grew tense, held out at his sides.

        “This is the second body you’ve found like this?” asked Menna. “Is there any connection?”

        “I asked Mariame if she knew any Pomponii,” said Vannus, “but it doesn’t look like it. Besides, these people are Jewish, their means are modest – what reason would someone from a family like Flaccus’ have for contacting them? They aren’t important merchants or politicians – Matthaios was only a fruit-seller.”

        “Then there must be something else,” Celatus muttered. “The timing on this is practically fateful – something _must_ connect these two men! Two attacks like this are not random: they’re focused, vengeful –”

        “But what reason could anyone have to be _vengeful_ against Matthaios?” said Menna with a frown. “He was an entirely ordinary man, close to his family, hard-working –”

        Celatus’ eyes darted up to her. “And who told you that?”

        “Mariame, the sister,” Menna shrugged. “And I talked to their slave, she said he was kind. Yehudit was _distraught_ when she came to us. Everything points to him having been a devoted son, and good worker… Why would anyone attack him like this?”

        “There’s a reason,” Celatus snapped, as if what she’d said had been an accusation. “There _must_ be a reason!”

        “Well, then how do we find it?” Vannus growled in the face of his friend’s frustration. Celatus looked to him, and though he tried to glare, something seemed to weaken and waver as he pinned Vannus in his gaze.

        “The appearance of another body both simplifies and complicates matters,” he said, suddenly calm and methodical. “I need to review the possibilities at which I’d arrived. Someone needs to talk to the Pomponii again – the sister _and_ the father – see if they didn’t happen to know this family. I need to go back to the subura…”

        “We can investigate at Pomponius’ house,” Vannus suggested – but Menna winced.

        “Actually, Seia needed me to run the shop this afternoon…”

        Vannus took a breath, surprised to find himself feeling disappointed at the thought of losing her company. “All right,” he sighed – “you go to the Caelian, and Celatus and I will go to the Pomponii’s house, then the subura, for…” He looked up at Celatus, who was still staring at him, his fingertips now pressed together in front of his chin.

        “We need to know more about Matthaios,” he murmured. “Where did he work, do you know?”

        “He used to set up his stall anywhere between the forum and the subura,” Menna answered. “It varied depending on who else was there, when he arrived, what day it was… You know.”

        Celatus nodded once, slowly. “Go see to your duties, Menna,” he eventually said, still unusually quiet. “And thank you for – uh – looking after him. Piso. That is.”

        Vannus nearly laughed at his manner; Menna’s mirth was no better concealed. “Keep an eye on him,” she warned. “He’s likely to overtax himself in his pride.”

        Vannus rolled his eyes with a groan. “I know how to look after myself!”

        “No you don’t,” said Menna and Celatus as one.

 

_“Nothing!”_

        Celatus stormed out of the Pomponii’s overlarge house, and as he passed, Vannus pushed off the outside wall to join his rushing step, though he stared, as he did, at a man rushing past with a frankly oversized sack of grain.

        “Listen, Celatus, have you noticed anything –”

        “What about the father?” Celatus snapped over him, having not even looked over to check that Vannus was with him. “Did he say anything about the Jews?”

        Vannus restrained a sigh. “No names were familiar to him,” he said, as he marched alongside and ignored Celatus’ attitude. “There isn’t a connection between the families at all.”

        Celatus let out a loud growl of frustration, and clenched his fingers into fists at his sides. “There has to be _something!”_ he cried. “Something, some reason those two, unremarkable men were killed in the same way.”

        “There’s still a chance they knew each other,” Vannus shrugged. “If they interacted personally but didn’t tell their families…”

        “If you’re suggesting they were having an affair,” Celatus grumbled, _“don’t._ Nothing about Flaccus’ life and associates indicates a relationship like that, let alone does it seem likely for a man of Matthaios’ piety to the Jewish gods.”

        Vannus raised his brow a moment, then frowned. “God,” he said.

        “What?” Celatus snapped.

 _“God,_ singular,” Vannus explained. “The Jews only have _one_ god. How can you know what they teach but not know that?”

        Celatus waved the correction away with one twitching hand. “It hardly matters!”

        “Anyway, an affair isn’t the only possibility,” Vannus returned. “They could have been friends, or partners in some secret venture. Matthaios might have been a part of Flaccus’ gang –”

        “Unlikely,” Celatus snapped. “There were no marks of violence on his body other than those of the murder.”

        Vannus stared. “You barely _glimpsed_ it!” he cried. “You were in and out of the room in moments!”

 _“Yes,”_ Celatus drawled, “enough moments to see what I needed to see. And one of those things was that _Matthaios was not prone to fights._ He was clean, professional, neat, pious, everything his family believed of him. So _why_ was he killed?”

        “There must be _something.”_

        Another frustrated noise left Celatus’ throat. “We’ll make our way through the forum to the subura,” he commanded. “Ask whom you can if they knew Matthaios – if we can figure out why someone would have wanted him dead, maybe we can figure out the connection between the two men.”

 

        They did as Celatus had said. Those who had known Matthaios were saddened about his death, and spoke of him with distant praise. Good, honest, pleasant, if a little reserved – that was all anyone seemed to say. He had been friendly with his neighbours and in his business, but not intimate. However, as they got further away from the paved and panelled forum, Vannus noticed some of the reports beginning to change. Matthaios was more often thought of as hostile rather than merely distant, or friendly rather than merely pleasant. The closer to the subura they got, the opinions they heard about the man grew more extreme. He was impolite, standoffish, miserly, rude; or funny, generous, and fair. He was an arrogant Jew who wouldn’t give a smile even to his customers; or he was a man faithful to his chosen religion, but still open and confident with his fellow Romans. Vannus’ frown grew only deeper as they progressed (not helped by the increasing sting in his leg), and when they had reached the sprawl and dirt of the subura, Celatus pulled him aside into a tavern, where they ordered stews and wine and sat gratefully to one side of the room.

        “I assume you saw the same pattern that I did?” Celatus muttered over the table after they’d ordered their food.

        “Everyone either loves him or hates him around here,” Vannus replied, just as quietly, having caught on to Celatus’ reticence. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

        “Variety in opinion is to be expected,” Celatus said, as if in recitation. “Extremes, however, are anomalous. And did you notice what the most obvious dividing factor was?”

        Vannus’ eyes dropped for a moment as he thought back, then he glanced up at Celatus with sharp realisation. “Almost everyone who hated him was a woman.”

        Celatus’ smile was predatory and pleased. “And we already know that Flaccus mistreated prostitutes, all of them women.”

        “If Matthaios was doing the same…” Vannus felt the looming triumph in Celatus’ gaze.

        “We need to call on Menna, I believe.”

 

        As they walked to the Caelian, Vannus tried very hard to hide his encroaching limp, and Celatus stoically pretended not to notice. It became obvious, however, when they reached Seia’s shop: as soon as they entered, Vannus sat in the nearest chair with a grunt and a sigh, and with a subtle movement, stretched his leg out before him. Menna stared at the two men from where she was selling to a heavily pregnant woman a draught to help her sleep.

        “And what do you two want?” she asked, peering at them, after the woman had left. “Is it a poultice for Piso’s leg after you’ve dragged him halfway across the city, by the looks of it?”

        Vannus laughed, while Celatus’ lip curled. “We need the services of some women,” the patrician demanded, looming over an entirely unfazed Menna, who raised a single eyebrow which caused Vannus to snort with laughter.

        “Matthaios seems to have found himself a bad reputation among the women in and around the subura,” he explained, smiling at her. “We thought it would be a lot easier to get an honest opinion from them if we didn’t have a couple of men marching around asking questions. Do you think you could help us this once more?”

        Menna shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind it,” she said, “but I’d have to ask Seia.”

        The brown-haired proprietor of the shop was called in from where she was having lunch in her own rooms. More than simply allowing Menna to go, she offered to help as well – “And just so long as you’re not doing anything, Piso, you might as well take over the shop for the rest of the day.” Her smile was cutting and pleased, and Celatus all but jumped at the chance to have an extra person gathering information, until Vannus reminded him that he would be obliged to stay with him. He agreed, however, in the end, and Vannus spent the afternoon dispensing as much knowledge and medicine as he could to those whom he could help, while he simultaneously kept Celatus from insulting or scaring away every customer they received. As dusk and darkness fell, he closed up the shop and settled on a bench in the courtyard with Celatus to wait; but the exertions of the day had exhausted him, especially on the leg Menna had admonished him about, and as the street outside grew quiet, he felt himself drift. It wasn’t until Seia and Menna returned, well into the night, that Vannus startled awake, and realised that he had been asleep on Celatus’ shoulder for hours.

        “Did you find anything?” Celatus asked the women, heedless of Vannus as he pushed himself upright and blinked the slumber from his eyes.

        “Matthaios and Flaccus were regulars at the same brothel,” Seia explained, two spots of colour high up on her cheeks and her breath coming quick and brilliant. She smiled as she removed her cloak. “Both of them had bad reputations, but, of course, all the men they knew simply took these as boasts and issues of pride, and either didn’t believe them or praised them. But the women who had heard of them knew that they were more than rude – they were practically dangerous.”

        “Flaccus liked to beat people,” Menna continued, pulling up another bench – “he got into fights on the street, and always left prostitutes with a bruise or two, no matter what he’d paid for. Matthaios wasn’t as extravagant as Flaccus, but he, uh – liked to strangle women during sex. It would be a reasonable interest if you knew how to do it safely, but… well, the rumours don’t indicate any consideration for that.”

        “What brothel was it?” Celatus asked.

        “It goes under Diana’s name,” said Seia, with an expression of distaste. “I’m sure it’s meant to be _ironic…”_

        “It’s right near the southern ridges of the Esquiline,” added Menna. “Quite a large institution, very popular – it’s hard to miss.”

        Celatus smiled to one side. “This case seems to be coming together more neatly than I expected,” he said to himself. “Thank you, ladies, for your cooperation,” he added to the women, who snorted and smiled.

        “It was a pleasure,” said Menna.

        “Not to mention important work,” Seia went on – “although yes, it was a _lot_ of fun.”

        Celatus shared his smirk with them, then stood, jostling Vannus with an elbow as he went. “Come on, Piso!” he cried. “We owe the workers at Diana’s a few questions.”

 

        Vannus was exhausted, fogged in mind, and confused as to why Celatus had let him sleep on him for hours when he could have been doing anything more important than waiting in a courtyard; and so the Briton was not quite in the mood for scouring a brothel for clues. Luckily for him, Celatus had suggested splitting up. In the end, the patrician disappeared to sniff around the tall and sprawling building looking for hints as to who had killed Flaccus and Matthaios, while Vannus had a revealing and enjoyable chat with one of the girls there, as well as a long and exceedingly comfortable bit of sleepy sex at a good price. When they rendezvoused outside just after dawn, Celatus took one look at him and scoffed in disgust, to which Vannus replied with merely a satisfied, if still weary, smile.

        “Something the matter, Celatus?” he asked, as they set off back towards the via Pistoris.

        “You were supposed to be _gaining information,”_ Celatus sneered, “not taking advantage of the premises for your own sordid needs.”

        “My sordid needs are just as important as yours, I’m sure,” Vannus chuckled in reply. Celatus, however, curled his top lip in response.

        “I did not indulge in any of the patrons of that building,” he said stiffly, “if that is what you are implying. I was there on a _case.”_

        “Ah yes, and criminal activity always comes first…”

        Celatus sighed hugely. “Did you at least discover anything _useful?”_ he jibed.

        “Flavia – that is, the girl,” Vannus said with a sly smirk – “told me quite a bit, in fact. Flaccus and Matthaios had a reputation in the brothel, that’s for certain –”

        “And nothing new,” Celatus interrupted with a growl.

        “– _and_ they both killed a girl within days before their murders.”

        Celatus stared down at him, wide-eyed. _“What?”_

        “Yeah, the day after the Nones, Flaccus beat one of the women so hard after the deed that he hit her head on the stone of the bed – she was asleep for two days before she died properly. And three days ago, Matthaios strangled one of the girls to death and fled. All of them are –”

        “– free employees, yes,” Celatus finished for him, “that’s why the owner never bothered to go after the culprits for damages to property. But prostitutes don’t generally come from the kind of families that could successfully pursue a case in the courts, especially not against a family like the Pomponii, or if guilt was uncertain.”

        “More than that,” Vannus added, “I got the distinct sense that the girls there look after each other. There are some non-professional doctors in there, women who are experienced in sex and birth, that kind of thing. And I was told of some of the girls standing up for each other when forced to do things they don’t want, or when accused of theft or adultery. If they’re willing to protect each other while alive…”

        “It wouldn’t be much of a stretch to say they’re protecting each other after death,” Celatus finished, with the calm face of revelation and satisfaction. “That would explain the savagery of the wounds, and the connection with the brothel…” Suddenly, Vannus snorted with laughter, and Celatus glanced down at him with a frown. “What is it?”

        “Well, I was just thinking,” Vannus shrugged – “they’re hardly being subtle, since the brothel’s called Diana’s. I wouldn’t venture to try to hurt one of them, walking in there.”

        Celatus’ eyes darted back and forth just once before they settled on Vannus once more. “Why’s that?”

        Vannus raised his brow at him. “Well, you know what Diana’s like,” he said. “You threaten her chastity, she turns you into a stag and has your own hounds hunt you down.”

        All of a sudden, Celatus’ expression went blank, and he stopped in his tracks on the street. Vannus was two steps ahead of him before he stopped and turned to frown at him.

        “Hounds,” Celatus muttered to himself, fingers pressed together by his lips. “Hounds, hounds, _hounds...”_

        “What?” Vannus asked. “What is it, what have you realised?”

 _“Hounds,_ Piso,” Celatus hummed, and met his eyes over twitching hands. “Something about hounds…”

        A heavy crease appeared between Vannus’ brows, and he glanced to either side of them on the slowly-populating street. “What about them?”

        Celatus drew a deep breath, a margin away from a gasp.

        “I need to think.”

 

        Vannus spent the day in a groggy haze, off of his leg as much as possible, and discomfited, though by what in particular, he couldn’t tell. He went to bed early – for which he was extremely grateful, as, still before dawn, Celatus gave a loud shout from the main room, and slammed both hands upon the tabletop, waking Vannus and likely the rest of the building with him.

_“HOUNDS!”_

        Vannus jerked awake, and frowned at the door to his room as Celatus clattered about beyond it.

        “I – Va—” came a spluttering from without, until Celatus wrenched it open, letting in the lamplight, with a heavy and insistent cry of _“Piso!”_

        “Oh, what, _what?”_ Vannus groaned, his voice muffled by the pillow with which he covered his face.

        “I figured it out!”

        “Figured what out?”

        Celatus stepped forward to rip the pillow from Vannus’ hands. “Titus Caninius Venator and his family have made cheap weapons for years,” he informed him, the words tripping immaculately over his tongue even while his face was haggard with fatigue. “Every son takes the same cognomen in honour of the profession. They specialise in hunting equipment, but they also make cheap knives for the populace; their family home is _right on the Esquiline Hill._ I _knew_ I recognised the weapon from somewhere!”

        “Weapon,” Vannus mumbled, sitting up, “what weapon, you never saw –”

        “Unusually shallow, Piso, _unusually shallow,_ you said it yourself!” Celatus babbled. “The Caninii specialise in short, sharp weapons, for ease of carriage and concealment on the body, _that’s where our murderer got her weapon!”_

        “Her?”

        Celatus rolled his eyes. _“Obviously_ her, no one else in that brothel is more likely to go to such lengths to protect their fellow female whores, are they? I knew there had to be a connection, as soon as you said that about the hounds – the Caninii’s symbol is a hunting hound, of _course_ whoever’s killing these men saw the symbolic advantage as well as the practical!”

        “She’s a hound…” Vannus muttered, staring somewhere about Celatus’ knees.

        “A _hound of Diana.”_ Celatus was grinning like a madman. “Taking revenge on men who impose upon or hurt the women under her charge. Although, strictly speaking, there’s nothing to say that the one committing the murders is one of the more senior women there, she could be a high-spirited newcomer, for all we know – _either way!”_ He squeezed shut his eyes and shook his head, and waved away the thought like a troublesome fly. “We know who the murderer is!”

        “Well, not _exactly_ who, no.” Vannus peered up at him in the near-dark. “How do you propose we do that?”

        “Pomponia talked to her,” Celatus said, “I’m _sure_ of it. Whether she planted the idea in the woman’s head on purpose, or let something slip that made her decide to kill, either way – there _must_ be a connection between her shoes and who’s doing these deeds.”

        “Shoes –” Vannus’ brow creased low over his eyes. “What _shoes –”_

        “Get up,” Celatus snapped over him. “We need to investigate who –”

        “Oh, Mithras and Mars, Celatus,” Vannus sighed, “it’s not even dawn yet! _Surely_ this can wait!”

        “Piso –”

        “I need to _sleep,_ Celatus –”

_“Piso –”_

        “Oh gods above and below…” Vannus raised his hands to cover his face, and breathed deep; Celatus, thankfully, was aware enough to recognise the movement for what it was: a reluctant, and highly tenuous, surrender.

        “… Piso?”

        “What time is it?” he snapped from beneath his hands.

        Celatus glanced over his shoulder into the main room, where the larger windows were. “Perhaps an hour before dawn?”

        Vannus heaved an angered sigh; but when he peered up at Celatus through his fingers once more, the _nobilis’_ eyes were wide, faint pools of silver, moon-bright in the dark – and he relented.

        “Let me eat first,” he muttered, shaking his head. “And pray Jupiter and Minerva we find her quickly.”

 

        Having deliberately forestalled in his preparation, Vannus ate wheat porridge while Celatus paced. He all but forced Celatus to consume a few mouthfuls of his own, with threats of his enforced absence from Celatus’ tasks, and as soon as he’d swallowed, Celatus dragged them both into the pre-dawn street, where already they had to dodge fights over vegetables, and remained deliberately heedless of one man scrawling _‘ CANTANS NERO GALLOS EXCITAVERAT’_ on the side of a column. It took them most of the morning to reach the brothel, and longer by far and to find out the information they needed: the streets were tense – not unusually crowded, but thronging with concerned faces and an air of distress that was palpable and catching – and the workers at Diana’s were hard to talk to when it sounded as if accusations were being made. However, between them, Celatus and Vannus managed to get to the information they needed, and by the time they’d reconvened at a nearby fountain with napkins of cabbage and chicken, they both had the same name to work with.

        “Galatea.”

        Vannus ate greedily, but spoke through his food in his haste: “She was pointed out to me.”

        “And was she, in fact, _milk-white?”_ Celatus asked with a jeer.

        “Oh no –” Vannus swallowed – “no, black as an Ethiopian, actually. It’s not hard to see why she doesn’t rely on her former masters, if they gave her a name like that.”

        “She could change it,” Celatus offered, though he sounded uninterested. Vannus shrugged.

        “Suppose it’s become a point of pride.”

        “So,” Celatus announced, and leant forward on his knees, “what we know is this: a freedwoman, Galatea, gets a job in a brothel in the subura. This was, according to most accounts, about six months ago.” Vannus nodded in agreement, and kept eating. “She begins to notice the abuses done to her fellow women while working there – eventually, her anger and sense of justice overcome her restraint, and she goes after the men for revenge.”

        “There’s still no proof it was actually her,” Vannus pointed out.

        “She’s the only one in the brothel who owns a knife from the Caninii.”

        “Another could have borrowed it?”

        “Doubtful.”

        Vannus shrugged again. “We still should talk to her,” he said. “Did you manage to find the connection to Pomponia?”

        Celatus’ mouth twisted into an ugly shape. _“No.”_

        Vannus snorted, and kept eating. As he did, Celatus watched the street around them: the sky was growing black, and torches were being lit on corners and in windows, as the people retreated into their homes. There was a certain vigilance about them that Celatus found intriguing and unusual.

        “The city is on edge,” he commented, neither fearful nor approving, while Vannus ate.

        “I see you’ve finally noticed,” Vannus quipped, swallowing. “Apparently Verginius Rufus’ troops tried to declare him emperor.”

        Celatus frowned back at him. “Who?”

        Vannus sighed, and rolled his eyes. “He just put down a revolt in Gaul,” he explained. “Galba, too, seems to have the throne in his sights – they say he’s marching from Spain as we speak.”

        “So all… _this –”_ Celatus waved his hand at the furtive alleys. “Do people think a war is coming?”

        “Perhaps not a war,” said Vannus, “but _something._ I wonder how long Nero will remain steady, as things are.”

        “Nero is _steady?”_

        “Well, no,” Vannus laughed, “I wouldn’t say that. But he is alive, for the moment.”

        “For the moment?” Celatus repeated, as he sat back to look squarely at Vannus, who tilted towards him a look of infinite cynicism.

        “I take back everything I said two months ago,” he admitted. “I don’t doubt some violence on the horizon.”

        Celatus shrugged the matter off with an enormously small gesture, and leaned back on his hands on the edge of the fountain. “Ah well,” he sighed, “I’m sure no one will bother us while it happens.”

 

        They went back the next day, and the day after that, to try to corner Galatea for a talk – but she was cunning, and had begun to recognise them and the danger they posed to her anonymity. Vannus spent the last days of May caught between calming a frustrated Celatus and planning with Seia and his new community of doctors a feast on the Kalends of June. Celatus rolled his eyes at Vannus when he told him they were celebrating Carna – “Isn’t she practically unworshipped these days?” – but the doctor insisted on her importance to his colleagues and himself, and went to the dinner with a bright heart and a brighter smile: for both Seia and Menna would be there, and he was enjoying the fresh society. He came home drunk and half-asleep sometime before morning the day after, somehow in one piece, but, miraculously, Celatus was already abed, and unable to tease or torture him. Through the next days, though still groggy, he accompanied Celatus to continue in their quest to talk to Galatea – until, one midday, they were stopped in the courtyard by a frantic Laevinus.

        “Get back inside,” snapped the legate, and even as Celatus opened his mouth to argue, he grabbed one of their arms each to push them towards the back of the house, repeating: _“Get back inside.”_

        “Why, what’s happened?” Vannus insisted, over Celatus’ outraged complaints.

        “Sabinus has declared against Nero.”

        Vannus’ face fell. “Mithras and Mars…”

        “Get back in the house,” Laevinus continued, “and stay there. Word’s already spreading, and this city will be in uproar within hours. _Don’t_ try to get outside the walls, there’s no point –”

        “Sorry, _who’s_ declared against _what?”_ Celatus spat, eyes narrowed. Vannus gripped the front of his toga and pulled his ear down to his level.

 _“Nymphidius Sabinus,”_ he growled, “the _prefect_ of the _Praetorian Guard,_ you know? The emperor’s personal _soldiers?”_

        Celatus frowned, and tried to speak – “Are you telling me –”; but Vannus and Laevinus ignored him to go back to their hasty conversing.

        “Laevinus, you didn’t have to –”

 _“Yes I did,”_ he insisted, then glanced about the courtyard and lowered his voice once more. Even Celatus was now paying attention. “You are my friends,” said Laevinus, “and I have a duty to you and to this city. The emperor won’t be around for much longer, but if all goes well, Galba will take over and we can remain in peace.”

_“Galba –”_

        “But until then, you _must stay inside,_ do you understand me? _Celatus?”_

 _“Why?”_ the patrician said, like an accusation.

        “Because the people will be prone to riot,” Vannus hissed at him. “The emperor will no doubt be assassinated any day now, there will be praetorians taking advantage of the confusion – Laevinus is right, we have to stay safe until it blows over.”

        “What’s going on?”

        All three men looked up, to where Menna had appeared in the entrance to the courtyard. Immediately, Vannus darted forward to pull her further in by the arm, to her obvious surprise and annoyance.

        “Sabinus has turned against Nero,” he said, and in an instant, her expression turned blank with shock. “Has he declared for Galba, then?” Vannus asked Laevinus, who nodded, and frowned.

        “Menna,” he said, though they’d only spoke once before, “do you live near here? Do you have any family?”

        “No,” she said, “I came from the Caelian. But my family lives far from Rome.”

        “Stay here then,” Laevinus ordered, in a manner that no one wanted to contradict. “Piso can take care of you. Have you still got weapons in the house?”

        “I have enough.”

        “All right,” Laevinus sighed. “Just keep your heads down for a few days, and for Juno’s sake, don’t let Celatus go stirring up any trouble, will you?”

        Vannus was steady. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

        Celatus’ expression of offence would have been precious had not the situation been so unexpectedly dire.

        “I need to get back to my family,” said Laevinus. “Dido’s securing the household, and my men are on the alert – you know what restless crowds can be like.”

        “Go,” said Vannus. “I’ll look after things here.”

        Laevinus nodded at him, spared one final glance for each of the three of them, then turned on his heel and marched from the building. With him gone, Vannus turned to his companions.

        “Go up to our rooms,” he commanded. “I’ll let Hirtia know, then join you. Celatus, you know where my weapons are kept?” Celatus nodded. “Get them out,” Vannus continued. “Find any that have gone dull, and lay them out for me. I’ll be up in a moment.”

 

        “This is _unbearable.”_

        “You’ll live.”

        “Galatea could be escaping from under our very noses, while we –”

_“Drop it, Celatus.”_

 

        The streets were still populated, but only by the desperate and fearful. The march or clatter of soldiers’ boots was universally feared.

 

        “There are too many _people_ in this house!”

        “Celatus, please, that's enough…”

        “I can't _bear it!”_

 

        By the nones, Celatus had gone quiet and fatigued from his own enclosure, and he did not respond when Mykale came to them with news of another man’s body, torn up as if by a dog, but left her to introduce herself to Vannus and Menna. She stayed until the sun began to set, then hurried home, a mouse to its hole as the cats woke at dusk.

 

        When the senate declared Nero a public enemy, people ran through the streets shouting the news. Celatus groaned from the couch; Menna smirked in relief; and Vannus went on cleaning the figure of Apollo on his sword, speaking prayers in his head.

 

        By the time news reached them of Nero’s death, Celatus had begun to oscillate between restless, twitching annoyance and horrifyingly still boredom – and he would vary between the two within hours, until Vannus was driven to the very edge of his patience. Menna left them that day –hurried through the streets to her own home and hoped it had not been too badly looted – and within hours of the shouting that the tyrant was dead, Celatus was throwing on his toga and storming from CCXXIB.

        “You _can’t go out,_ Celatus!” Vannus shouted as he hurried after him, but the _nobilis_ no longer heeded his warnings.

        “You said we were housebound until it all blew over,” he cried over his shoulder. “The emperor is dead, Galba has been decided on – what more do you want to wait for?”

        Out on the street, people still rushed about. The looting was not over, but anger and fear had turned to relief, and the danger seemed near to having passed. Vannus still strapped a dagger to his belt as he ran after Celatus, however, and was sure to be wary of those sporting caps of liberty and joyous expressions. He had, after all, technically been a soldier for the tyrant.

        Celatus, heedless of the celebrations, led them straight to the subura and Diana’s brothel. He marched in with a determined and directed gait, until Vannus caught up with him and pointed out the woman he’d been told was Galatea, lounging in one corner of the main room in loose clothes but a sober expression. As soon as she saw them coming, her eyes widened and she made to rise – but Celatus had waited for far too long, cramped up in their rooms, to be willing to withstand any more delays.

        “Galatea,” he snapped as he cut her off, “did you or did you not mutilate Flaccus and Matthaios for murdering two of the prostitutes here?”

        Instead of answering, she drew a short dagger from within her clothes. At the first sign of movement, however, Vannus too had drawn his blade. She hesitated for a long moment, during which Celatus twitched with infinitesimal impatience – until, to Vannus' relief, she relented.

        “Yes,” she finally growled. “What do you intend to do about it?”

        “You tore up their bodies like an animal would,” Celatus declared, instead of answering.

        “I do the goddess’ work,” Galatea snarled. “It was only fitting.”

        “So you do it to protect them, then?”

        “I gain their rightful revenge. If other men take it as a warning, then all the better.”

        Celatus peered at her with dark analysis, but she flattened her shoulders and thrust out her chin in defiance. His mouth twitched into the ghost of a smile, as of that he might have directed at a delightful and satisfying puzzle.

        “Do you know Pomponia?” he suddenly asked. “Flaccus’ sister?”

        Galatea’s shoulders fell back as she relaxed, and she smirked up at the men.

        “Not personally,” she said. “For that, you might want to ask Maera.”

 

        Maera was curly-haired and freckled and as sour as an alley cat, and had, apparently, used her mouth for far more licentious and rewarding purposes than discussing Pomponia's brother.

 

        “You’re just going to let her go?” Vannus asked, not disappointed, but certainly surprised, as they left the brothel and turned back towards the via Pistoris.

        “Of course,” Celatus shrugged, like it should have been obvious. “Her actions were reasonable, despite Flaccus’ status and Matthaios’ apparent virtue. I see no reason to stop or punish her.”

        “And if the Pomponii come after you again in search of fulfillment?”

        Celatus arched his brow down at his friend. “Then it was quite a terrible shame, but it must have been nothing more than a random and savage attack by a lunatic,” he sighed. “You know what desperate and bitter beggars can be like.”

        Vannus looked away from him, smiling.

        “I always have thought you were a sentimentalist in truth.”

        Celatus frowned down at him in offence. _“Sentamentalist?”_ he repeated. “I’ll have you know –”

        “I have _noticed,_ you know,” Vannus interrupted, and though his voice was calm, there was something delighted and unsure in his expression as he looked up at Celatus. The shock of the distraction left the patrician open-mouthed, and slowed his steps enough that he now walked in line with Vannus.

        “Noticed – what?” he finally asked, as Vannus was clearly expecting.

        “I’ve noticed your troubles with my name.”

        Celatus blanched, and his eyes grew wide with something like terror. Vannus sighed and continued before he could reply.

        “I did catch it,” he said, “when you misnamed me after the fight. I thought it might just have been nerves –”

        “I wasn’t _nervous –”_

        “So I let it go. But all this time – you keep looking at me like one would a hungry tiger!” Vannus was kind despite the quip. “You kept helping while I recovered even though there was hardly anything that you could do, and I know it to be against your nature –”

        “It is not _against my nature_ to look after my only friend –”

        Celatus snapped shut his mouth over the admission. Vannus stared at him for a moment, then smiled.

        “Either way,” he said calmly, for he could see how desperate Celatus was to let the slip go unremarked, “I have heard it, every time you’ve nearly called me by my British name. And I’ve decided – well.” He cleared his throat, and kept his eyes on the street ahead. “I’m giving you permission to use it.”

        Silence fell, a thin layer of shock in the air while the rest of Rome bustled around them. Vannus lifted the corner of one eye up at Celatus, who was staring at him, blank and silent.

        “Not –” Vannus suddenly amended – “not in front of your brother, of course, and – well, you must know _always_ to introduce me to someone without it, but… as for _you…”_ He met Celatus’ gaze very steadily, and gifted him with a solemn near-smile. “You may use it.”

        Celatus stared at him, with his mouth pursed shut and his eyes wide and grey. After moment, he collected himself with a gasp, and looked down as he said: “Yes – yes I – thank you… _Vannus,_ yes, thank you, for –”

        “I think you’ve earned it,” Vannus quipped, if only to stem the tide of awkward sincerity that was spilling over Celatus’ lips. Celatus, however, nodded with startling force.

        “Yes, I have tried – that is, I only meant to –”

        He startled, and trailed away, and Vannus chuckled beneath his utterly terrified gaze. “You know what’s most surprising about all this?” he said, marching ahead so that Celatus had to hurry to catch up.

        “What’s that?” he asked, still with a note of amazement in his voice.

        “As it turns out, you were wrong about Pomponia this whole time.”

        Celatus, stunned, stared down at him. He opened his mouth, said nothing for a moment – then a frown grew upon his features, and spread from brow to cheeks to mouth in swift progress. “Oh shut up,” he growled – _“Vannus.”_

        They laughed halfway to the Aventine, and fit well with the jubilant crowds.

**Author's Note:**

> Changes to the previous part include: Vannus brings home fried sparrows for dinner, not stew (a little more accurate); fixed a minor typo I happened on by accident; changed 'Claudius' to 'Gaius' in the conversation after Sollemnis' departure (I think what happened was I questioned my judgement when writing, oscillated between the two, and though I knew it was Caligula that I meant, I wrote Claudius in a moment of confusion?? Sorry about that, of course Vannus wasn't a child in 54, he was about to join the army); and finally, someone very kindly pointed out that the Golem legend did not exist until long after the Roman imperial period! So I changed that to Baal: a semitic word for 'lord' or 'master', used for a variety of gods as well as mortal lords from the Bronze Age and on.
> 
> The Greek text was very kindly provided by a friend of a friend. I have not myself studied ancient Greek, and am therefore relying on her word that it's correct. Apologies for any mistakes there. (But holy shit, doesn't it look cool???)
> 
> The anti-Neronian graffiti was lifted almost verbatim from Suetonius ( _Twelve Caesars_ , 6.45).
> 
> Reports, unfortunately, vary on the exact chronology of the events surrounding Nero's death, so I had to do a little shuffling and eliding to try to make it all work. Apologies if you've learnt something different.


End file.
